


Bubbles

by TheLastGoodGoldfish



Series: you should only wear this [3]
Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, cursing, curtain smut, domestic crime solving fluff, explicit sexual situations, light costume work?, shamelessness all around, spoilers through everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 01:23:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11453073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastGoodGoldfish/pseuds/TheLastGoodGoldfish
Summary: Veronica takes a case in Las Vegas.





	Bubbles

Veronica taps the screen of her phone to save the audio recording and clicks through to upload it to the cloud for safekeeping.

— _Aaand done._

Aside from delivering the evidence, paying her dues to the client, and trying one of the party’s truthfully enticing signature cocktails, she is off for the night.

And not a moment too soon. Another twenty minutes in this crowd and she’ll lose her damn mind.

“Whatcha doing?” Drummer returns his attention to her and puffs rum-tinged breath into her face, leaning over the remains of overcooked prime rib on the table between them. Fortunately, he’s sidetracked by the sudden proximity of Veronica’s neckline, and she manages to switch screens in time.

“Instagram,” she lies succinctly, then tucks her bedazzled cell into her clutch purse. She flashes her teeth at Drummer in that way that men—at the very least, sixty-year-old straight wealthy male real estate magnates selling their business partner’s trade secrets—find compelling. “’Got near twelve-thousand followers now.”

“Impressive,” Drummer oozes, with dubious cognizance.

Veronica leans back in her chair and casts around the lively terrace for a chance of escape. In the process, she passes over Ol’ Brown Eyes, still situated at the closest bar, trying admirably and failing adorably to appear as though he’s not checking her out.

She saves _that_ thought for the near future and instead settles on the gorgeous brunette standing in black Gucci near the pool, turquoise and purple in the reflected lights of the party. “Gee, your wife’s dress sure is pretty,” she says to Drummer, playing up the Texas drawl she’s been sporting all evening (this is neither the time nor the place for subtlety, she's finding.) “Is that Blake Shelton she’s talkin’ to?”

Drummer’s head snaps up, comically quick, and he clears his throat. It is, in fact, multi-platinum-Grammy-nominated television personality Blake Shelton at whom the third Mrs. Drummer is directing her significant charisma, and her husband rises abruptly from the table. “I’d better...” He gestures, and Veronica nods and smiles.

“Toodles,” she says, wiggling her fingers,

But Drummer takes her hand and sort of... massages it, while he attempts to charm, “Pleasure meeting you, Miss White. Ray is a very lucky man.”

“Oh, I reckon I’m the lucky one,” she gushes, but Drummer is too busy trekking off to pee a circle around his wife to notice the artifice.

_And they say romance is dead. Or is it chivalry?_

Veronica rolls her eyes and heaves herself up from the table.

Now to find Fossy.

(That’s Raymond L. Fossy: Las Vegas-based mogul, owner of two dozen luxury hotels worldwide, host of tonight’s self-congratulatory soiree, Mars Investigations client, and Veronica’s fake fiancée for the evening—at least until she can return to her suite and remove the miscreation of an engagement ring causing her left hand to cramp.)

The night is young, the party still in full swing here on the rooftop terrace of Fossy’s _Metropolitan Resort and Casino_ , smack dab in the center of the Las Vegas strip. It’s a _private_ party, celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of the hotel. Consequently, the exclusive guest list features mostly big-wig business-types, the usual consortium of local politicians, celebrities, and as many _aspiring_ celebrities as could nab invitations. Most importantly for Veronica’s interests, Fossy’s fleet of ambitious children, monetarily-entrenched ex-wives, and predictably faithless business associates are also in attendance.

Occupational advantages notwithstanding, it’s certainly not Veronica’s preferred scene, the only improvement over the Neptune equivalent being that she’s unlikely to encounter anyone who knows better than to talk to her.

She’d determined that Ron Drummer was the one undermining Fossy’s expansion plans _hours_ before she showed up to the party tonight, but, unfortunately, some people are particular about _proof_.  So instead of turning in her file and hopping on the first plane back to California, Veronica resigned herself to the extra mile: harnessed herself into a slinky, sparkly evening gown, some clunky high heels, and twelve inches of blond hair extensions, and has gamely played beguiling ex-pageant-queen for the night, while she collected the rest of the evidence.

Holding the hem of said evening gown, lest it fall victim to said clunky high heels, Veronica navigates herself through the dense population of partygoers. Stepping carefully between a row of potted palm trees and a pair of _genuine_ Real Housewives, Veronica finds a satisfactory lookout point from which to survey the tableau for her client. She comes up short perusing the bars, the pool, and the dance floor, then finally locates Fossy on the other side of the buffet, chatting with serious looking men in a spectrum of ugly suits. She catches his eye, then taps her nose, Newman-and-Redford style, to let him know she’s got the goods.

Fossy nods once but holds up his finger—gesturing _one minute_ —and carries on his conversation.

 _Rude_.

Veronica sighs and leans against the iron railing behind her.

The party is certainly glitzy—chocolate fountains, purple lowlights, cocktail waitresses carrying trays of champagne and inexplicably fluorescent-colored vodka. Lyric-less electronic music throbs in the background. Veronica can’t imagine that any of this is to the seventy-two-year-old host’s tastes. Certainly most of his older guests appear disdainfully _above it all_ , though the younger crowd—twenty-somethings enjoying the pool and fluorescent vodka, mostly—seem to appreciate the mise en scéne.

On the other hand, maybe Fossy _does_ enjoy this; with his penchant for spray tans, facelifts, and twenty-five-year-old girlfriends... well, Veronica isn’t one to judge, but the guy sure seems like he’s dying to be young.

Veronica snorts. _Of course she’s one to judge._

Fossy was all skepticism when he sauntered into the Mars Investigations office two days ago, insinuating that, a couple weeks away from thirty, she was somehow too young for anyone to believe she worked in his legal department and too old for anyone to believe they were dating. In a miraculous demonstration of self-restraint, she managed to reply, _I know the business, Mr. Fossy_ , instead of _Can I introduce you to my friend Mr. Sparky?_ and even that was only because Fossy’s case looked like an open-and-shut-in-a-weekend project that would pay _giant_ dividends. In more ways than one.

But that doesn’t mean she can’t privately mock the client’s late-life crisis.

Anyway, now Fossy is keeping her waiting.

Two minutes tick by, and he shows no sign of wrapping things up—which is _especially_ rude, because Veronica has very definite intentions for this evening, and she’d like to get them started.

Another minute passes, and she gives up. She pushes off the railing and heads over to the bar—one of three, actually—in the center of terrace.

It’s an impulse decision, sidling up to the handsome guy standing there.

(“Handsome” is putting it politely. “Handsome” is not for a man like this, built like this. “Handsome” is not for those shoulders, which look truly excellent beneath a trim black shirt. “Handsome” is certainly not for the strong, tanned forearms peeking out beneath half-rolled sleeves, slanted over the bar. Nor is it for the long-fingered hands, fraught with potential, embraced around a tumbler of whiskey.)

It’s an impulse decision, because Veronica should _technically_ still be on the clock. But Fossy can track her down when he wants his information; she’s tired of living on his schedule.

There’s no seating here, so Veronica just leans over the faux-marble countertop and asks for the signature cocktail _specially_ designed for the event by Fossy’s mixologist. Then she glances to her right and, noting the faint smile on her companion’s lips as he pulls a sip of liquor from his glass, she croons, “Come here often?”

“First time, would you believe it?” he replies, deadpan, though his eyebrows curve theatrically in conjunction.

The bar is situated around a tower of white lights, twinkling to look like cascading water, and it’s a nice effect on his handsome, angular features. There’s a spark in his brown eyes, and his mouth inclines upward on one side as he takes in her look, head to toe.

She’s added several inches of icy blond hair to her usual above-the-shoulder cut. Part of it is pulled back into a bouffant, and the rest falls in Prom Queen waves halfway to her elbows. Her dress is full-length silver sequins, the neckline a deep v, maintained by spaghetti straps that crisscross in the back between her shoulder blades. The top is fitted and clingy past her hips, where the skirt ripples and spills to the floor—cut by a narrow slit that reveals, for one, part of that leg and, for another, a towering block-heeled silver sandal with straps above her ankle. The dress was purchased consignment last minute; the shoes are old favorites.

Handsome is not even close to the first guy to admire her look tonight, but her stomach sort of flip-flops when he reaches the backline of her dress (as low as decency allows), and it’s not an unpleasant sensation, if a little silly.

_Thirty years old and getting butterflies. Honestly, woman._

And, since turnabout’s fair play and all: his shirt is a fine black linen material, close cut and showcasing all the muscles beneath—the cloth straining against arms and shoulders and abs. It’s a Henley fit, and six or seven little copper buttons trail down his chest, a few of them unemployed so that the collar flaps negligently open. He wears dark jeans tucked loosely into black leather boots; there’s a clunky, leather-strapped watch around his wrist and a thin metal chain hangs long around his neck, disappearing beneath his collar— _dogtags._

He’s underdressed by far for this party—it’s a wonder they let him in—but there’s polish and precision ( _money_ , really) behind his insouciant stylings. Where that should turn Veronica wise, make her cynical about the effect, it—really just doesn’t.

(His tan, she knows for fact, is real.)

It’s fortunate he only arrived at the party about fifteen minutes ago; Veronica’s not sure she could’ve focused on the job with this absurd piece of work casting surreptitious looks in her direction all night.

He notices and clearly doesn’t mind her unsubtle assessment, matching her hyperbolic enthusiasm when he speaks again, “Say—don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“Well...” Veronica taps one glittery fingernail to her lips and pretends to think. “I _was_ Miss Grand Prairie 2011. You ever been out to Texas?”

“That must be it. I was in flight school there.”

The bartender deposits her drink in a martini glass before her. Like all signature cocktails, it’s just vodka and ginger and some kind of fruit juice, made “unique” by, in this case, an ill-advised orchid that Veronica has to remove before she can take a sip. Fossy told some prosaic, Eccentric Rich Guy story about why orchids are a metaphor for his success, but Veronica was barely listening when he regaled her with the narrative.

“ _Flight school_?” she echoes, breathlessly impressed, a little more Marilyn Monroe than her cover story permits. “Wow. You’re a _pilot?_ ”

“U.S. Navy,” he confirms, grinning. “Lieutenant Logan Echolls.”

Smug bastard. She masks her laughter with her widest smile and takes his offered hand. “Amber White.”

“—Miss Grand Prairie, 2011.”

“First runner up for state.”

“Must’ve been rigged.”

“Oh that’s how those things go: it’s all about _who you know_.” She sighs wistfully, cradles her chin in the palm of her hand, and takes another sip of her drink.

“So what brings you to _Fabulous_ Las Vegas?” asks Logan, settling in to really chat her up.

“Well, I was born in Odessa,” she begins her cover story, “but I moved out here—oh, ‘bout two years ago now. Chasin’ a boy, but of course he broke my heart. But I liked the city okay, so I stayed. Teach aerobics classes at some of the hotels ‘round town.”

“I bet they line up around the block.”

Veronica shrugs. “So what’s a nice boy like you doin’ in a town like this? Business or pleasure?”

He ponders the question. “Neither, actually.”

“Well, I guess we’ll have to see what we can do about that.” She raises her eyebrows over the rim of her glass as she takes another sip (the drink may be predictable, but it’s delicious).

“What? You think you’ll have need of my professional services?”

 _“Professional_? Someone’s sure of himself.”

Logan laughs, quick and genuine, like he wasn’t expecting it, and Veronica enjoys the effect.

“Well,” she carries on, “it happens that I _do_ have a problem you might be able to help me with.”

“I’ll certainly try.” He twists his glass on the bar, a ring of condensation forming and buckling on the countertop around the base.

“See, I’ve got me this boyfriend...”

“—That _is_ a problem—”

“...And he has this fancy, high-pressure job...”

“Naturally.”

“…And all last week, he had to work _nights_ , leavin’ me all by myself...”

“ _No_.”

“...So it’s been _twelve whole days_ that I’ve gone without any—” she selects the euphemism carefully: “—company.”

“That’s definitely a problem.” Logan blows out a short breath, shifts so that he’s hip-checked against the bar, leaning heavily on one elbow. “I gotta say, I don’t think much of this boyfriend of yours...”

“No?”

“—Leaving you to your own devices like that. Sounds plain selfish.”

“Well, he has his good points.”

Logan retrieves his glass, tips it to her and says, “Well, sure.”

“One or two, anyway.”

“Good conversationalist?”

“Oh, yes. Orally gifted.”

“That’s fortunate; I wouldn’t like to think of you bored.”

“How _would_ you like to think of me?”

“Stimulated, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

All right, so the Steve and Slim routine is silly and maybe a little on-the-nose, but what the hell, if she’s going to go full-length and backless, she might as well enjoy herself a little, too. These are five inch heels she’s committed to, dammit.

Logan smiles into his cup. He rolls his shoulders and looks out at the party, an idle inspection of scenery he couldn’t care less about. A tension seems to release from his body as he stands there, as though he’s relaxing into his environment for the first time since he arrived. “There is one flaw in your story, though, Amber,” he says, tilting back toward her.

“What’s that?”

“This boyfriend of yours worked nights all last week, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, a week, as you may be aware, is only seven days. A _work week_ is only five, so it sounds like maybe for some of those twelve unaccompanied days, _you_ were otherwise occupied. Out of town on business, perhaps?” His eyebrows flit upward in challenge.

Veronica clears her throat. “It’s _possible_ I was away chasing a child-support-dodging deadbeat across the desert for a few days beforehand, but...”

“—Must be one hell of an aerobics class—”

“Y’know,” says Veronica, pointed, “It sounds like you don’t want to help me with my problem, Lieutenant.”

“On the contrary, it’s my top priority.”

“Then maybe you should go down to room 2106 and order some dessert.”

Logan grins. He leans in, so she catches the undertones of his cologne when he murmurs in her ear: “Is this the part where you slip me your room key and tell me to wait for you?”

Veronica pulls back just a little, so she can lock in his stare, “You’ll order something with chocolate if you know what’s good for you.”

“Do I ever,” he says and swallows the last of his whiskey, placing the glass on the counter with a delicate _clink_. He extracts a few bills from his brown leather wallet and tosses them beside the glass, then tugs at the front of his shirt as he impels off the bar, shrugging the material forward so the collar dips lower. Hums: “Be seeing you,” as he slips past her. He strolls off toward the elevator, but Veronica, back to him, doesn’t watch his exit.

She’s got work to do, if she’s not going to keep him waiting. While she finishes her cocktail, she pulls out her phone and gets to it.

Or tries to, anyway.

Logan’s been gone for less than two minutes before another gentleman joins her at the bar: Ray Jr.

(And she’s applying the word “gentleman” very generously here, because Raymond Fossy the Second is her client’s oldest son, and, in addition to a million dollar trust and a Bugatti, Little Ray has inherited his father’s suboptimal gender relations, without even the thin veneer of manners that the elder Fossy at least usually pretends to display.)

Junior’s thirty-two, slick and gelled up, probably styled after a SKYY advertisement he saw in GQ.  He’s still ten feet away when Veronica gets a whiff of his cologne, so she’s got plenty of lead time to slip back into character when he slinks up to her and says, “Well hey there, Amber.”

(He’s obviously a little drunk, maybe a little high too, but he’s steady on his feet.)

Veronica doesn’t look up from the extensive file she’s in the process of attaching to an e-mail, but smiles congenially and replies, “ _Junior_.” (They were introduced earlier, she as his father’s bride-to-be, he as a fledgling party promoter). Junior orders a German brew and tries to peer over her shoulder, but she hides the screen and finally grants him eye contact. “You havin’ fun?” she asks sweetly.

“Oh, yeah.” (With type typical proportions of sleaze.) “What about you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s a really cute accent of yours. I am _so_ pumped that you’re gonna be joining the Fam. Should I call you ‘Mommy?’” He winks.

 _Yuck_.

“I’m sure your Mama would prefer you call me ‘Amber,’” says Veronica, scouring the crowd for Fossy Sr.

“You know,” says Junior, and he leans forward to recapture her attention, “I couldn’t help but notice you talking to that guy a minute ago.”

“Hmmm?”

“The guy—in the black shirt.” Junior taps Logan’s empty glass on the bar. “Do you know him? I asked the bouncer, and he said it was Logan Echolls. I didn’t know my dad knew the Echolls kid.”

“Well, it’s a private party, Junior, I reckon if he was here, he was on the list.”

“Sure, sure. I thought he might’ve been a friend of yours.”

Junior is definitely trying to imply something, but Veronica’s not sure if he’s just being a dick, or if he’s actually figured out her cover. Not that it really matters at this point, but she’d like to know, as a matter of professional curiosity... especially since she spent all that time activating fake social media, and Mac so diligently hacked the Miss Texas website to plaster her headshot in the 2011 line-up.

“What makes you say that?” she asks, effectively casual.

“Well you two looked so cozy here together.” When Veronica doesn’t rise to his bait, Junior presses: “Like maybe you knew each other pretty well. Maybe he took one of your yoga classes?”

“Aerobics,” Veronica corrects.

“Yeah, well—I know it was all perfectly innocent.” Junior indulges in a large gulp of his beer, swallows, then breathes it into Veronica’s face: “But I wouldn’t want my Dad to get the wrong impression, y’know what I mean?” He trails off. She waits for him to cut to the chase. “So I won’t mention it to him, if you don’t want me to.” Still, she just stares. “Would you like that?” He edges closer. “For me to keep your secret?”

_Yep: definitely just being a dick._

Veronica sighs and picks up her purse. She drops the Texan bit, because there are levels of acerbity that she can’t quite reach with a false accent, “I promise you, Junior—and I mean this from the bottom of my heart: it is literally impossible for me to care less about anything that you might say or do, ever. In your life.” She leaves a few dollars on the counter for the bartender, because it’s an open bar but she doesn’t envy anyone serving alcohol to this lot. As she passes Junior, she pats him on the shoulder and adds, “It’s in your best interest to keep it that way.”

She hears him splutter something but doesn’t pause to hear what. Instead, she makes her way over to the elder Fossy—whose personal time is officially up. She’s got a date, and this music is giving her a headache.

She steps up to Fossy and loops her arm through his, another gum-flashing smile on her face as she exaggerates the accent and eagerness in her greeting, “Well, _howdy,_ Boys,” —completely interrupting White Guy Number Seven’s soliloquy on the evils of the tax gradient—“I hope you don’t mind, but I just gotta steal my future hubby away from you for a couple moments, you understand. Sweetheart?” She tugs at his arm, and Fossy makes reluctant excuses to his cohorts, but follows as she leads the way across the terrace. They find a relatively vacant corner near the free standing, gold-plated elevator, and Veronica pulls out her phone again.

Fossy is seventy-two and almost bald—just bristly grey-brown hair on the sides of his head and a bushy mustache the same non-color. His skin is tanned and leathery, his eyes are beady and hazel, and—for all his hundreds of millions—he’s got to be wearing the ugliest suit Veronica has ever seen. It’s a double-breasted navy blazer over a carnation pink pin-striped button up with a mismatched off-white collar. He’s got rings on three fingers and smells of expensive oils. He looks about half as weary as Veronica feels when he asks, “Well, all right, what is it? I guess you got a lead on the leaks?”

“Uh—no. I solved it.”

“You solved it.”

“Yes.”

“In a day.”

“Technically two: I put some time into it yesterday as well.”

Fossy looks skeptical. “Miss...” He clears his throat, lowers his voice, “Miss Mars, I had local agencies working on the leaks for two months before Martin recommended you to me.”

“And I’m sure that they were professionals,” replies Veronica. “But unlike those guys, _I_ am commuting from California, and I have a dog and a boyfriend and a life to get back to, so I’ve got no reason to run up a tab on you. Ron Drummer’s your man.”

“Ron? No, he’s loyal.”

“He’s not really sabotaging _you_ ,” Veronica explains. “He just doesn’t want you to expand the Miami location. He’s trying to edge you into expanding Reno instead.”

Fossy frowns. “Why?”

“Because if you do, you’ll put your resources into pressuring the ballot to change some zoning laws in the region between 18th Street and Elderwood—the address of your hotel, and also, coincidentally, the region where the Braden Group just bought a big chunk of land to redevelop.”

“Drummer has nothing to do with the Braden Group, and I’ve worked with him for twenty...”

“The Braden Group is headed up by Lydia Carl, who is eighty-three and terminally ill and set to leave all her holdings to her daughter, Duchess, who, incidentally, married your man Drummer six months ago.” Veronica points across the terrace to where her would-be former admirer and his Gucci-loving wife manage to meld passive aggression and champagne-sipping with unprecedented efficiency. Fossy follows her stare, then scowls back at Veronica, as though her competence somehow inconveniences him.

“And how do you know it’s not Duchess behind all of this? I never trusted her, to be completely forthright...”

_What a surprise—_

“Duchess doesn’t have anything to do with it,” says Veronica confidently. “Unbeknownst to her husband, once she inherits the property in Reno, she’s going to flip it. She doesn’t trust the market and she thinks she can turn a pretty good profit. There isn’t anything Drummer can do to stop her. His pre-nup really isn’t as good as he thinks it is.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because I studied contract law at Columbia?”

“I meant about the—about Duchess selling the land.”

“Oh, that. She told me.” Veronica holds up one sparkly-nailed hand, “We got manicures this afternoon.”

Fossy huffs. “And I suppose you have some kind of evidence for all of this?”

“Documentation of Drummer’s redevelopment efforts and communication between Drummer and your competitors are in your e-mail. And, just for fun, there’s a recording of a phone conversation between Drummer and the guy who outbid you for the land development in Miami.”

“How did you get that?” Fossy asks, pulling out his cell to verify the story.

In reply, Veronica waves her own pink bedazzled phone at him. “Don’t believe the hype: rhinestones are a girl’s best friend. For whatever reason, people see me ‘ _Instagramming’_ on this thing, and they assume I can’t overhear corporate espionage, much less identify it.” She pauses to consider, “Also... y’all can be real condescendin’ toward folks with an accent.” She sighs, takes a step back to hit the _down_ arrow on the elevator. “We’re flying out at ten-thirty tomorrow, but since you’ve been kind enough to let us stay in your lovely hotel, Mars Investigations will only be invoicing you for the two days of work, plus expenses of course. Should you have any other questions or require further services, feel free to contact us any time, eight o’clock to five, Monday through Friday.”

She steps through the opening elevator doors, but Fossy holds out a hand to stop them from closing, and it requires all Veronica’s strength not to groan in exasperation.

“Miss Mars,” he begins uncertainly, “I feel that—that you and I started off on the wrong foot. Why don’t you stay? Enjoy the party, try a cocktail.” He waves his free arm at the extravagance around him. “Please, after all your hard work, I must insist. Besides, I haven’t spotted your boyfriend around, and if he’s out enjoying the town, it’s only right that you should, too.”

He fixes her with a look that Junior must’ve learned at his knee.

_Can I introduce you to my friend Mr. Sparky?_

Veronica smiles. She remembers, abruptly, that she’s still holding some of his property and removes the diamond ring from her left hand. She steps forward and relinquishes it to him. “I don’t think so, Mr. Fossy. It’s a lovely party, but—I’m little too old for it.”

He takes her point with a grimace and releases the doors. As they close, Veronica exhales heavily and hits the button for the twenty-first floor. She leans against the wall, face against the cool metal, and sighs.

_Fucking finally._

Really, she never could pursue a career that required long term undercover work. If she’s being honest, she enjoys a couple hours here and there, but anything much longer than that is just so draining. Pretending to like people she despises is a skill she’s neglected in the past couple years, and she’s not sorry for it, but being out of the habit makes this kind of thing exhausting.

When the elevator deposits her on the appropriate floor, her mood picks up a little in anticipation.

_Twelve damn days._

Look, it’s not like she’s some kind of wuss, she can handle the absences, the deployments— _she_ can _, dammit_ —but it’s depressing working the opposite schedule as your boyfriend. Getting up to go to the office just as he’s coming back; bringing dinner home just as he’s climbing into his car. And, fine, yes, maybe she _is_ a little bit of a wuss, because she doesn’t like sleeping alone. She’s out of _that_ habit, too, after the last few months of having him back.

She inserts the keycard into 2106 and pushes open the door to her deluxe suite.

As expected and desired, there’s Logan, stretched out on the bed. He’s still fully clothed, unfortunately, except that he’s taken off his shoes and set them neatly on the floor beside him. He has a newspaper on his lap—the _Las Vegas Review-Journal_ delivered to the room this morning—and a pencil twirling between his fingers, so probably he’s doing one of the puzzles.

He grins at her as she closes the door and falls back against it. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Long time, no see.”

“Did I keep you waiting?” She toys with a sequin at the apex of her v-neck and pouts, because there’s a time and place for subtlety, and this is neither.

Logan chuckles and stashes the pencil behind his ear, informing her: “You look like Kris Munroe.”

“Oh good. I thought I’d gone overboard with the hairspray and hit full Farrah Fawcett.”

“Oh no, strictly Cheryl Ladd.”

She scans the room and finds, on the table to her right, a platter of chocolate cake. If her memory of the hotel menu serves her (and she has every reason to think that it does), that would be the Metropolitan’s _Decadent Flourless Chocolate Cake with Raspberry and Brandy Infused Dark Chocolate Ganache._ A _whole_ cake, mind you, with only the smallest sliver missing, because apparently, Logan has the self-control of a saint.

“Well that was fast,” she says, nodding at the dessert. “Did you bribe them to rush the order?”

“Nope. I called it in at noon. Told them to bring it up at ten, and if the _Do Not Disturb_ sign was out, leave the tray in the hallway. Otherwise, if no one answered the door, leave it in the fridge.” He waves a hand, dramatically presenting the fruits of his labor, and Veronica laughs.

“You’re a genius,” she observes, heading over to the table to set down her accessories and help herself to a slice.

“This I know. Are you all done for the night?”

“Yep. Case closed. Our flight’s at ten-thirty-five.”

“Good, I’ve had a headache since we got here; this whole town smells like Menthols.”

Veronica, having obtained her dessert, takes her plate and meanders over to the chest of drawers along the furthest wall. She perches herself on top of it to eat. Logan follows her with his eyes, but, leaning against the headboard behind him, he doesn’t stir from the California King.

“You almost blew my cover tonight, y’know, Mister,” she tells him, over an absolutely _marvelous_ bite of cake.

“Yeah, how’s that?”

“Raymond Fossy Jr. saw us talking and picked up on how utterly besotted you are. You really gotta work on your poker face.”

Logan laughs. “He did _not_ say ‘besotted.’”

Veronica nods her head solemnly and waits to swallow another forkful. “Positively infatuated.”

“He didn’t say _that_ either.”

“...Completely transparent...”

“Bullshit.”

“...You looked like you wanted to shack up and adopt a dog with me,” she concludes with relish, and Logan shakes his head, dismissive.

“You have prior knowledge. I won _fifty bucks_ playing poker tonight.”

“Woah there, Cincinnati Kid—should I expect ermine and pearls for my birthday?” She skates a wedge of cake through the heavy chocolate sauce on the plate and asks, “Where’d you play?”

“This old poker room called Arlo’s—way out downtown. Colt recommended it to me. He grew up in Vegas.”

“Low stakes?”

“Yeah, locals place.” Logan sets down his newspaper and pencil on the nightstand, beside the watch he’s already removed. “You’d have liked it. Mostly old vets... retired performers, washed up bookies playing ten bucks a hand. That kind of thing.”

It _does_ sound like something Veronica would’ve enjoyed. Plus, beating Logan in poker is one of her favorite pastimes. “Have fun?” she asks, because jealousy aside, she hopes he did. Las Vegas isn’t Logan’s favorite place, and though she’s fuzzy on the details, she knows it was the setting for some of his darker days, back in the once upon a time. She's glad he decided to tag along.

In response to her question, Logan nods. “What about you? Miss Grand Prairie catch the bad guy?”

“Oh sure.” She chews thoughtfully for a moment, then decides she’d rather vent to Logan than not: “Fossy’s a prick, though.”

He tenses immediately, straightens up, already barreling into _make sure Veronica is okay_ mode, when she waves off his concern with her hand, then uses it to spear another bite of cake. “He didn’t think I would be a believable fiancé,” she elaborates, and she finds that she’s not all that offended anymore. For whatever reason, reiterating the fact aloud makes it kind of funny. “Apparently, I’m not his usual type.”

Logan frowns, not following. “Too smart?”

“Too old.”

“The guy’s like eighty.”

“Seventy-two, but he said if his sons got wind I’m almost thirty, they’d never buy the cover.”

Logan makes a face and mouths _Yuck_. “So why’d you work for the guy?”

That’s the million dollar question, of course, and Veronica is transiently tempted to make a snarky comment. _Someone’s gotta keep the lights on at Mars Investigations... she doesn’t always have a choice about clients y’know_...

But that’s bullshit, and it’s just the exhaustion of a long, wearisome day and last night’s red-eye flight talking. She’s not on the job anymore, not undercover, doesn’t have to maneuver around scheming jerks and their multitude of ulterior motives. It’s just her and Logan, and she’s glad he’s here, and she knows he’s not really judging her.  She’s a little concerned, what it says about her that those are her instincts: to pick a fight just because she’s tired and hungry and hasn’t gotten laid in almost two weeks, but she does her best to set that aside for the time being, and tells the truth, “Fossy is friends with Martin Legassio,” she says. “Legassio asked me to help as a _special favor_.”

Logan squints, curious. “Do you owe Martin Legassio a special favor?”

“No.” She finishes the last bite of her cake and places the dish on the dresser-top beside her. “But after this, Martin Legassio will owe _me_ one, and he’s on half the boards of directors in Neptune. I think I can use that leverage for the Kamala George case.”

“You’re still working on that.”

“Yeah. Judge Caplin threw it out last week, go figure, but...” She shrugs and flips the long blond extensions forward over her shoulders, baring the back of her neck to the cool hotel room air... “I don’t know, I think I’ve got a couple Hail Marys left.”

“I see. So _that’s_ why we’re in Vegas.”

“Uh-huh.” She’s about to add something else, something like _sorry for bailing on our relaxing weekend plans,_ but the way his eyes go all soft makes her think he doesn’t need or want or expect an explanation, much less an apology. Nonetheless, she _is_ glad he’s here, so, “Thanks for tagging along.”

“Are you kidding?” He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “It’s not every day I get _personal invitations_ from the likes of _Raymond Fossy_.” He says the name with phony reverence that would probably fool Fossy, but makes Veronica smile. He finally rises from the bed and starts slowly toward her.

“Comped amenities, too,” she adds. “I’m sure you made good use of those.”

“Went to the gym. Swam in the pool. Got a massage.”

Veronica snorts. “How is it I’m the one who had to play Trophy Wife all day, and you’re the one who actually got to live like one, hmmm?”

“The perks of being a kept man.” He reaches her, settles in between her legs, one hand on each knee. “And you were only playing Trophy _Fiancé._ ”

“Semantics. I’m the one wearing heels and fake hair.”

Logan runs his hands up her legs, over her hips, then upward. He curls his hands around her back, molding against her bare skin. She drapes her arms round his neck and kisses him softly.

He’s slow, gentle and affectionate at first, so she parts his lips with hers. Chocolate and whiskey, sweet and bitter, she reaches to taste more of him, savoring everything with a long, heavy drag. Then she pulls back to lets him chase her a little. After a second, he catches her mouth with a little grunt, and slow and gentle go out the window pretty fast.

His hands move rapidly downward, shoving the material of her skirt up, using the slit in the dress to ease her legs apart and pull her tight to him. He suckles her bottom lip, hungry, and Veronica grabs a fistful of his shirt between his shoulder blades, gathering as much as she can in her hand to expose his skin. She glazes over the warm hard muscles of his back, hitches one leg as far up as she can to haul him closer—wants more, more, more—

Logan draws back just enough to yank off his shirt, then he’s cupping her face between his hands and kissing her again, fervently.

It leaves her dizzy, lightheaded for just a second. His hot, earnest mouth, big hands, and the expanse of naked skin presented for her touch. _So fucking beautiful,_ and it’s perverse but she can’t help it, how turned on she is knowing he’s hers— _only-for-her_. She grazes her thumbs along the muscles on his abdomen, then her nails over his chest, and they flex in response; he moans and pushes his tongue deeper into her mouth, maneuvers her skirt so it’s bunched at her waist, then presses her sex over the button of his jeans.

 _Fuck_ , she murmurs in his ear as he moves his tongue and teeth and perfect mouth to her neck, and she uses the hand not clutching his shoulders to undo his fly. With the instep of her shoes, she helps him shimmy out of the jeans, then wraps her legs around him again.

She leans back on the heels of her hand and—still kissing her neck—Logan uses the opportunity to slip the straps of her dress over her shoulders, peeling her top down with them. She feels the heat rising through her body, laid bare like this, and Logan places his hands on either side of her ribs, runs his thumbs along the undersides of her breasts, till they tighten and ache for more contact.

“Logan _.”_

“Hmm?”

(Asshole.)

“ _Logan_.”

He complies now, drops his head to suck on one breast, uses a thumb to massage the other. His dog tags swing and brush against her belly.

_Jesus fuck—incredible—_

Veronica’s head lolls back, so it taps against the wall behind her, but— _jesus fuck._ It’s fucking perfect, his tongue, the silk of her panties grinding against the coarser material of his boxer briefs. This whole no-sex-in-two-weeks thing is bullshit.

He slides his fingers beneath her thong, stroking her and curling his fingertips inside of her, so it’s all she can do not to give herself over and get off like this. She swallows thickly and sits up, takes in the sight of Logan’s muscled back, red-gold in the dim lighting, clenched and tight and as desperate for release as she is, and she lifts her hand to grope at his waistband. “Logan—take—off...”

He obeys, and in the meantime, she scrambles out of her own underwear. He pulls her back to him almost at once, laves her other breast with his tongue, and resumes his steady, exploratory rhythm with his fingers.

In a minute, she’s ready— _so damn ready_ —for him and she tells him as much, moving to align herself. The dresser’s a weird height, but do-able, and Logan grips her hips and slides carefully inside of her. He tilts his forehead against hers and kisses her quickly, then begins to move. At first he goes slowly with his cock, but his thumb keeps a different rhythm, a beat quicker like she needs it to be.

_Feels perfect._

“Fucking gorgeous,” he mutters, and palms the wall behind her with his other hand.

The way he moves is wonderful; his abdominals clench, the defined muscles of his pelvis pointing downward to where he moves inside of her. The thin chain around his neck sways at the end, stuck around his neck with the film of sweat on his skin. His _arms_ —one braced against the wall just to her right, and the other flexed downward, all that _power_ focused with such incredible precision in his fingers.

Her heart’s pounding, breath labored, and she’s already close. She tries with limited success to shake her sweaty hair out of her face and rocks harder against him.

Logan watches her body as carefully as she watches his, eyes all dark with lust. He swallows, she sees the column of his throat move, maintaining control even while he does everything he can to make her lose it. She’s suddenly so overwhelmed with feeling, she pulls him close and kisses him until she comes apart.

Hot and sharp, the pleasure fills her up, and she gasps against his mouth, then his neck. The sensation is so much, so good, release vibrating through her body, while Logan moves, slick, inside of her. _God, fuck, yes..._

He kisses her all over as he always does when she comes, applies the perfect pressure with his fingers to help her coast the high and bring her down.

_God, that is—_

When her breathing has almost evened, her heartrate under control, she bites his shoulder softly and he lets out a little huff of laughter. She grinds her hips harder, takes him in as deep as she can, though her legs are slippery around his back and her heels must be digging into the skin there.

_—God, Veronica, fuck—_

She combs her fingers through his hair, delighted in every little tell his face reveals as she rides him, the dresser objecting loudly beneath her, till his breath grows ragged, eyes fall shut in pleasure. He finishes with a groan, the last jerking thrusts drawing it out of him, before he drops his head to her shoulder.

He rocks slowly, after, and smooths his hands over the length of her body. He kisses her throat, murmurs _love you_ so that she feels the hot breath of the words on her skin.

When he’s recovered, he straightens up again, brushes the long blond locks over her shoulder and scrutinizes her with Logan-typical attentiveness. His lips are all mussed and pouty, and she kisses them delicately. _Onlyforme_.

He’s off the night shift as of Friday, so she allows herself a little whining: “I don’t know about this schedule, Lieutenant,” she says on an exhale. “Do you really need low visibility conditions to test low visibility tech? Can’t you just fly with your eyes closed?”

Logan snorts. “I’ll be sure to pass that recommendation along to my C.O.”

He pulls out gently and helps her the rest of the way out of her gown, taking this time to do a fair amount of groping as well. His hands (and mouth) feel amazing in the heady, post orgasmic haze, every nerve ending in her body lit up with the need to be touched, she can’t even find it in her to be self-conscious.

When her dress sits in a heap on the floor and he’s finished his review—unsurprisingly, he’s left her heels in place—Logan brushes his lips over hers and picks her up from the dresser. "Be honest," she murmurs, planting a kiss on the side of his mouth and twining her arms around his neck. "You like my Amber look."

Logan spins them around and deposits her with flourish onto the bed. " _Nothing_ gets past you, does it?"

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” Veronica calls across the suite, “how’d you get into the party earlier, anyway?”

It’s about an hour and a half later, and Logan is in the bathroom—the electric hum of his Oral-B suggesting he’s brushing his teeth—while Veronica waits in the bedroom.

She’s scrubbed off the glitter and bronzer, put away the false eyelashes and extensions, and lies in bed, bare-faced and refreshed as she waits for Logan to finish his own nightly routine. The buzzing of the toothbrush stops, and he calls back, “ _What?”_

“How’d you get into the party earlier?” Veronica repeats, and she rolls onto her back to better hear his answer.

“Uh—took an elevator? I don’t know, I was on the list I guess. I thought you put me on it.” Logan appears in the doorway, shrugging, clad only in forest green boxer briefs. Veronica chews her lip and shakes her head.

“No, but that tracks. Fossy’s a starfucker.”

Logan snorts. He flips off the bathroom light and strolls over to the bed, joining her under the covers. “To be clear, am I the ‘star’ in this scenario?”

In her best Jimmy Cagney: “Only to me, baby.”

Logan switches off his bedside lamp, and the room is left in darkness as he curls up around her. Veronica relaxes into the comfort of the position. Ironically, the boy who fast-tracked her edification in the non-cuddling enjoyments of the bedroom is a devoted and proficient cuddler. His arm drapes over her hip, and he kisses her back lightly.

She shuts her eyes and— _tries_ to drift off.

Really she does try.

Tries to focus on how contented her body feels. Reminds herself that the case is closed and tomorrow they’ll go home...

But what if Martin Legassio doesn’t play ball? What if he decides he doesn’t owe her a favor after all? What if he _does_ help, and it doesn’t matter, because Neptune just sucks? Jesus, they need a new district attorney—they’ll never get a Grand Jury indictment as is—

Maybe she gave the Georges false hope—

Maybe they can try a civil suit... there’s this lawyer in San Jose who—

“What’s the matter?” Logan mumbles into her hair.

“What?”

“You’re scratching my arm.”

“Oh.” She disengages and strokes the spot consolingly. “Sorry.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. Nothing. Can’t turn my brain off.”

Logan places another kiss on her shoulder. “That’s three answers: which is it?”

She sighs and take a moment to decide for herself. “I’ve got too much to do,” she says at length. “I shouldn’t be wasting time...”

“Sleeping?”

“ _No_ , just—working cases like this. It’s three whole days—two away from the office, so my dad has to pick up the slack, and he’s...”

“What about the other case?” Logan interrupts, and Veronica shrugs.

“I don’t even know if this’ll help. What if Legassio decides I’m asking too big a favor?”

“Then you’ll tase him until he changes his mind.”

Veronica laughs quietly. In lieu of segue, she pulls Logan’s hand up to her lips so she can kiss his knuckles. “We should try to get to the airport by nine.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, lips still poised over her shoulder—over the sleeve of her t-shirt, really: a grey Men’s Large STANFORD tee that she bought him (with every intention of stealing) for his birthday.

He slips his hand free and splays fingers over her belly, while his thumb paints slow circles there.

“That should give us enough time to get breakfast, right?” she asks, because—priorities.

“I already ordered the Crème Brûlée French Toast for seven-thirty.”

“With bacon?”

“Yes.”

“And eggs?”

“Yes.”

“Hash browns?”

“Crispy.”

She gives his hand an approving pat. “Good man.”

“I can call in something else when the kitchen opens...”

“No, that sounds good.” She stretches back to peck him on the cheek. “You’d make a decent scheduling secretary.”

“Would I get my own desk?”

“I could arrange it.”

“I don’t know; I think I like this trophy wife gig.”

“Missing the life of leisure, huh?”

“I’m just saying, it’s a long time since I’ve had a decent massage.”

He’s joking, of course, they both know he’s not _truly_ built for idleness. It nearly killed him the first time, and he’s kicked the habit, _he had to_. Still—

“It’s an interesting proposition,” she pretends to muse. “You’d have a lot of time to pursue your hobbies.”

He drops his hand to her hip, one finger toying with the elastic waistband of her underwear. “Which hobbies are those?”

“Whichever ones you like.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You could wait for me to come home, fix me a drink...”

“—Help you unwind?”

“Exactly.”

Logan brushes her hair away from her neck, clearing his path so that he can set a soft kiss there. His thumb’s hooked beneath her waistband now, and Veronica sighs— _feels so nice—_

When she says his name, it comes out a little scratchier, unsteadier than intended. He nips her skin in response, and she chuckles. “You are  _not_ subtle. I know all your moves.”

“There's a time and place for subtlety,” murmurs Logan, and Veronica couldn't agree more.

She wiggles free just enough so that she can turn onto her back, and then over onto her other side, facing him. He’s smiling faintly at her: even in the scant light she reads his pure affection as he makes a study of her face.

(Does it bother him when she doesn’t say it back?)

“I thought you were tired,” she accuses playfully, as he dips to kiss her neck again.

“I got a second wind.”

“Third,” she corrects.

“Mhm.”

He rolls her onto her back, doesn’t even bother removing her shirt, just sucks on her through the cloth, touches her through the cotton of her underwear. Veronica sighs again and brushes the hair out of her eyes. She basks for a moment in the ensemble of lovely sensations playing on her body, until he pulls away and crawls lower down her body.

He nudges the hem of her shirt up enough to peck at her hipbone, then disappears beneath the blankets.

There’s a brief little struggle, as she tries to help him remove her bikinis without inflicting injury—broken nose via poorly positioned knee would probably kill the mood, right?—and she hears him snickering under the comforter.

Then he presses his tongue to her sex and her whole body relaxes.

 _Fuck yes_.

He’s tender at first— _teasing,_ actually, fleeting tongue strokes—because she’s already come tonight, and he’s damn considerate like that, knows how to work her back up. She closes her eyes against the dark and lets the warmth spread through her, until she’s tingling down to her toes. She spreads her legs wider, and Logan’s mouth becomes more insistent—fingertips stroking the shape of her cunt—the other hand gripping her thigh.

(She likes when he holds her like that, because it anchors her, helps her focus on her rapture without distraction or anxiety. Won’t get lost, won’t lose this, he wouldn’t let her.

He always holds her like that now—didn't used to, but does now—because he's figured out that she likes it. It’s just for her, _onlyforher_ , just between them...)

When she’s close, so hot she could combust, she grasps around for the blankets and throws them off. _God yes smart move_... cool air on her legs, and she loves his flexed shoulders, the tensed muscles of his back, his ass—

His eyes are molten and dark when they flicker up, then down again, refocused on his task. There's a line of concentration, urgency, creasing his forehead. So fucking beautiful.

She’s not _relaxed_ now. She’s strung tight; her breathing’s coming labored and noisy and raw, and she digs her heel into Logan’s back, slams her eyes shut.

—Falls apart in long, glorious ripples, Logan’s name on her lips. Ecstasy down to her bones, surging and settling into perfect satisfaction.

It's a minute, maybe two, before she peels her eyes open.

Logan kisses the inside of her thighs, soothing her with one hand—the little ridges at the top of his palm—while the other kneads the flesh at the outside of her hip. She sinks deeper into the mattress, feels heavy, except for this wonderful lightness in her chest.

Logan shifts positions and curls two fingers inside of her, tongue in languorous motion again. He glances back up to her face, something like a smirk on his lips, so she knows he’s not done yet. He’s firm and steady with his rhythm, and Veronica unclenches her fingers from around the sheets and reaches up to rake her hand through his hair... bristly damp with sweat... _loveyou_...

She _knows_ he’s smirking when he reaches up, locks his fingers around hers and guides her, directing her to grab on. He cedes control so decisively, surrenders himself to her: it’s impossible not to get off on all that. She speeds up, stretching her neck, loves how it feels with those muscles pulled taut, hips rolling and Logan’s lips moving over her. Still he has that wrinkle of focus across his forehead— _devoted and proficient_ —kissing her so passionately as she rocks herself against him, builds up her desire.

She orgasms quickly this time: bright and dizzying, she sees spots on the darkened ceiling. But the comedown stretches longer. Her heart slams in triple time, an insane, alarming, thrilling rush that she rides breathless and euphoric. Logan carries her with exactly the right strong, solid counterforce, long seconds until her head clears and the adrenaline recedes and her body calms once more.

 

Even then, she's panting and sweating...  _fucking hot in here_...

Veronica releases Logan's hair. She props herself up on her elbows and pulls off her t-shirt, her wet skin going abruptly cold as she tosses the garment aside. Logan’s eyelids droop, and he breathes in and out heavily, his own lust evident as he takes in her naked body.

 _Nothing_ makes Veronica’s blood run so hot.

“Come here,” she orders, voice a growl, and he does. He crawls back up, and she hauls his face to hers and kisses him hard. She tastes herself on his tongue of course, with toothpaste and mouthwash and just the faintest traces of whisky, still. Her chest tightens in response, a pull of desire aches low in her belly.

Logan’s hands slide up and down her body, eager and knowing and hungry; she scrapes her nails down his neck, shoulders, back, and presses his body down to hers, reveling in the sensation of his warm muscles gliding over her breasts. He’s hard against her leg, hips buckling into the bed, desperate for his release, and she gets wetter at the thought of giving it to him. She kisses the spot just below his ear and mutters, “Get on your back.”

Logan moans and rolls over. His underwear is extracted at some point in the position change, and Veronica climbs over him, strokes him till he curses faintly— _fuckveronica._

She has every intention of returning the favor— _fa_ _vors?—_ spirit of reciprocation and all that, but not now. ( _Tomorrow, probably in the shower, her insides tighten just thinking about it_.) Now she wants to fuck him properly, wants to feel him come apart inside her again and see every moment.

It’s quiet, fervent work, positioning themselves, though they’re well practiced at maneuvering their bodies together. When she sinks down, taking him, it’s _bliss_.

Logan starts moving at once, pitching his hips upward with miraculous command even as his eyes briefly flutter closed. _God_ _it’s electrifying, making him look like that._ He breathes deeply and regains himself, uses one hand to circle her breast with his thumb, plants his other on her ass and guides her.

For long, exhilarating moments they move together, their breathing and the _smack_ of slick flesh the loudest noises in the room. This mattress doesn’t squeak—neither does the new one at home, but their headboard usually makes more noise than this. Veronica thinks about last week in their big wonderful bed, and she thinks about earlier, fucking on the dresser, and how the plate from her chocolate cake was rattling. She thinks about his low voice _, beseeingyou, loveyou, fuckveronica_ , and watches his eyes, heavy with desire, absorbed by her _._ She’s rasping for breath, but she rides him faster.

She loves getting him off like this—loves the challenge probably, but loves watching his whole body react, too.

Logan groans softly and skims both hands to her hips. His breath’s a hiss, but he studies her with renewed focus suddenly, and he shifts her position just slightly, like he’s trying to correct for something. It feels good, hips tilted forward like this, but Logan doesn’t seem quite satisfied. He pushes her legs further apart, tests that, and still—

“What do you need?” she gasps, moves faster. “What...?”

Logan heaves forward before she can finish the question. He doesn’t kiss her like she expects, but runs his hand down first one leg, then the other, pulling them straight, so she can wrap them around him. He's so deep inside her now. He feels so good, filling her up like this and she rolls her head back with a sigh, earning a sharp whisper from Logan, "Fuck. You're so fucking.."

He doesn't finish the thought, but rather lifts her by the hips again, tilts her just slightly, so she thinks he’s going to flip them over, but he doesn’t. He thrusts forward and back, almost all the way out and then back in, again, again, again, and—and— _fuck_.

—Right where she needs it, pleasure swells and breaks, over and over when he touches that sensitive spot inside—

 _“Sogood. Dontstop_.”

She cries out and clutches his shoulders, doesn’t want to slip and lose this perfect feeling. More, more, with every stroke, it surges and builds, and her body chases it with everything she has. Logan’s hands grip her tight. His eyes are burning and enthralled, and he’s every bit as close as she is, she can feel it— _godgodgod._ Logan’s thrusts lose their rhythm, control overpowered by need, and the last few jerking pitches push Veronica over. Her body clenches around him, then releases with spectacular force.

Logan pants her name and _God_ , and he finishes right along with her.

 

 

* * *

 

It’s a billion degrees as Veronica waits for the airport shuttle on the bench outside the Metropolitan.

(Okay, it’s only 94 degrees, but it’s also only 8:30 a.m., so she feels justified in her irritation. At least Google tells her it’ll only be 80 in Neptune this afternoon.)

She fans her neck ineffectively with one hand, uses the other to fiddle with her spaghetti strap. The navy blue floral print jumpsuit may be all right for Southern California summers—light, comfy, trendy, and pretty, it’s Veronica’s favorite new purchase—but it’s no match for this kind of desert heat.

She digs around in her purse for sunglasses, and Logan returns with iced coffees just as she locates the shades and pushes them over the bridge of her nose.

He hands her one of the coffees and sits down on the bench beside her, plucking an assortment of reading materials from under his arm and setting them in his lap.

“Aren’t you _hot?”_ she asks, after a fortifying sip of the smooth, icy beverage. Logan peers down at his (well-fitted) black t-shirt and jeans, then shrugs.

“I’ve been led to believe as much, but...”

Veronica rolls her eyes, and if he can’t see the gesture behind her sunglasses, he probably senses her intention.

“So,” he says, picking up the publications he must have purchased in the lobby shop, “I’ve got  _Vanity Fair,_ _Rolling Stone, The_ _New York Times,_ and—if you’re feeling particularly nostalgic— _The New Yorker_. What d’ya want?”

Veronica pretends to consider. “ _New York Times_ ,” she decides at length, and Logan’s disappointment at relinquishing the crossword is evident, even as he hands the paper over. Veronica laughs. She points at her face: “See this? _This_ is a poker face.”

Logan shakes his head (probably _also_ engaging in a significant eye roll behind his aviators) and grabs the paper back, while she takes the others and snickers. He sips his coffee through the straw and says, “You know, we _could_ just...”

“We don’t need to take a cab, Logan, the shuttle is perfectly fine.”

“But we wouldn’t have to sit here in the heat if we called a car...”

“The shuttle’ll be here any minute,” Veronica insists, and Logan shrugs, resigned. He drapes an arm over her shoulder, pulls her up against him, and she sighs. She’s got a dozen things to do when they get home, but for the moment, she allows herself to (mostly) forget those troubles: partially because Logan feels nice and smells nice—a mixture of his familiar deodorant and the hotel body wash from their shower this morning—and partially because it’s too damn hot to think about anything.

Nonetheless, overworked and overstressed and overheated and all, she feels very...

“Hey!”

Veronica starts. She opens her eyes to a pair of boat shoes on the concrete before her, followed (as her gaze ascends) by white cotton shorts, a turquoise Havana shirt, and, last but never least, a straw fedora. Goddammit.

It's fucking _Junior_ , is who it is: Fossy’s son, looking hungover and bewildered and staring down at Veronica as if he wants to cuss her out for something, but isn’t quite sure _what_.

“You’re—are you... what's...?”

Junior gestures incomprehensibly, thrown, no doubt, by the fact that Veronica, make-up-less, bespectacled, and in possession of significantly less hair, looks considerably different from the blonde he leered at last night. Or maybe because he's under the impression that she's engaged to his father.

She shuts her eyes again.

“Fuck off, Junior,” she grumbles into Logan’s shirt, and her boyfriend chuckles.

Junior grouses unintelligibly as his footsteps beat a hasty retreat. No doubt he's in a hurry to try and trade this info to his old man for a couple grand, she almost feels sorry for his certain failure. Logan, at least, waits until the footsteps have faded entirely before he offers the inevitable unsolicited remark: “So that’s the legendary poker face, huh?” 

( _L_ _ucky,_ she was going to say; she feels very  _lucky_ )

“There's a time and place for subtlety, Logan.”


End file.
